


From the Nothing I Built With My Own Hands

by jellybeanforest



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Bottom Tony Stark, Breakups, Cautiously Optimistic Steve Rogers, Cynical Tony Stark, Defenestrate and Berate, Disaster Bisexual Tony Stark, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Firefighter Steve Rogers, Functional Gay Steve Rogers, Getting Together, Insecurity, Lights on Park Ave Prompt, M/M, Minor Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Tony Stark/Tiberius Stone, Past physical abuse, Recovery is a long road, Sort Of, Starting Over, Survival Sex Work, Terrible Choices, Tony sleeps with Steve because Steve is available and Tony wants to avoid homelessness, Tony's Evil Exes, Top Steve Rogers, Unsafe Behavior, attempted Somnophilia, broke Tony Stark, stranger danger, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26716873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: On the day Tony Stark meets Steve Rogers, Tony is standing on the sidewalk engaged in a shouting match with his soon-to-be ex-boyfriend on the balcony, all his belongings raining down on him or lying broken on the pavement.Written for the Lights on Park Ave Anniversary; based on a prompt from Round 8.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 71
Kudos: 360
Collections: Lights on Park Ave





	From the Nothing I Built With My Own Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by this prompt from Round 8:
> 
> “I adorn myself in wine  
> because I am afraid  
> of me.  
> The eye of my own tornado:  
> mouthshot and bucking.  
> Skin coated in gunpowder  
> and teeth made of flint.  
> Every few years I start a bonfire,  
> incinerate a mattress or a man  
> or a city, then dust off the rubble  
> and rebegin from the nothing  
> I built with my own hands”
> 
> -Jeanann Verlee, “Secret Written from Inside a Grizzly’s Mouth”
> 
> This story takes place in 2012. Tony is in his early twenties, Steve is in his late twenties, and Ty is in his mid-thirties. I would also like to stress that Tony is not in the healthiest of mindsets after Ty kicks him out, and his relationship with Steve starts off as one of convenience/quid pro quo/survival, even if Steve doesn’t realize it at first.

On the day Tony Stark meets Steve Rogers, Tony is standing on the sidewalk engaged in a shouting match with his soon-to-be ex-boyfriend on the balcony, all his belongings raining down on him or lying broken on the pavement.

“Ty! Be reasonable! You’re acting insane right now!” Tony says, as he dodges another plate. It shatters at his feet. He tries to shield himself from shards of porcelain stark white and jagged ricocheting off the concrete. “You almost hit me that time!”

“I promise to do better in the future!”

“Just let me back in so I can get my stuff!” he tries to bargain with the enraged man above. “Then I’ll get out of your hair!”

Ty’s eyes widen, his face goes tight and shoulders tense in warning. “You want your stuff!” And now he’s emptying an entire dresser drawer over the balcony, dumping socks and boxer briefs onto the street before going back inside and throwing what looks to be items ripped off hangers. Tony catches some, pulls others off the sparse bushes and picks a hoodie and band tee off the sidewalk before the morning dew can soak through. He looks around at the gawking bystanders, scrapes whatever he can salvage, what little dignity he can muster, from the dumpster fire that his life has become.

“You can have all your stuff!”

Tony takes cover when his toolbox comes crashing down. He then stares up in horror as Ty holds aloft the very last item. He drops the collected bundle of clothes at his feet, his hands up palms out in a placating gesture. “Ty, come on, man… Be reasonable here,” he says, eyeing his guitar.

Tony made an average of $137.23 working three hours as a busker at a popular subway station during the morning commute. It is half his income, and paid more than his second-shift minimum-wage job as a dishwasher. If Ty destroys his guitar, Tony isn’t sure he’ll be able to afford to eat, much less rent an apartment by himself on such short notice. He had slept rough in the past back when he was just another queer kid kicked out of the family home much too soon. The memories, the scars of that time lie just under his skin, and if he peels at the corners just a bit…

He shudders to think of it. Homelessness is a situation he’d like to avoid long-term, a feat rendered possible only with the help of a functional guitar, one that now hovered two stories above his head.

“We can work it out, honey. You and me… we’ve always had our ups and downs” – more downs as of late – “But we’ve always gotten back together” – after Tony had sufficiently groveled and promised not to go out again without permission Ty rarely granted – “I’m sorry, Ty. I love you” – or some given value of love – “Can I please come home?”

Ty drops the guitar, and Tony cries out, turns away as his livelihood smashes on the concrete.

Ty stares down at Tony imperiously, his brow furrowed and lip twisted in a snarl. “…Maybe after you spend a few days on a park bench or in a men’s shelter so you can remember how good you have it, how well I treat you before you go off and do something stupid again!” he barks out. “Because I’m tired of it, tired of you and your attitude, so you’re not coming home until you learn how to act right!” And with that, he leaves, slamming the sliding glass door on any further conversation, any additional pleas for clemency.

Tony crouches down, picks up his broken guitar. He runs his hand along the wood veneer, wary of splinters. The neck is snapped, the body smashed and strings limp and loose, freed from the snapped bridge. It’s useless now, unsalvageable, like Tony himself.

_What is he going to do? How is he going to sur–_

“Are you alright?”

Tony looks up to find a man, tall and broad and blond like Ty but with kind eyes and an expression of concern that would have been foreign on his (ex?)boyfriend’s face. Bundled up in his arms are various articles of Tony’s clothing he must have collected. He shifts the pile to one arm and offers a hand to Tony. Tony doesn’t accept; he rises on his own accord, the guitar still held limply at his side. He doesn’t need a hand up, much less from a suspiciously-handsome stranger.

“Do you have a place to stay? A friend maybe?” the man asks, passing the bundle to Tony before reaching into his pocket for his flip phone. “If you need to call someone to pick you up–”

Tony chuckles to avoid weeping. “I don’t have anywhere to go,” he says, his tone soft with defeat. During the ten months he had dated Ty, all of Tony’s friends just seemed to evaporate one-by-one until all he had was Ty. And now he doesn’t even have him anymore.

He glances over at the stranger, the man’s eyes wide with… _is that pity?_ Tony hates being pitied, and so he takes a step back, collects himself. “It’s okay. I’ll– I’ll figure it out, alright?” Tony always lands on his feet…eventually.

“Would you like to come home with me for a bit?” the stranger offers. “Only until you figure it out, of course.”

Tony is gobsmacked. “Really, man? Inviting a stranger back to your place? That’s dangerously stupid. I could be a serial killer for all you know.” _What is Tony doing? Someone (granted, a stranger) is offering him a place to stay, and he tries to warn them off?_

_Why is Tony always sabotaging himself?_

The man blinks. “Are you a serial killer?”

“No…”

“Then come along,” he hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s only a few blocks from here.” He considers Tony, his head cocked to the side. “What’s your name, by the way?”

Tony hugs his pile of clothing close. He thinks for a minute and reckons that telling the handsome stranger his real name isn’t particularly risky, especially when he is already considering going home with the man. “Tony.”

They’re in New York for Chrissakes; everyone is either named Tony or has at least two or three cousins named Tony.

At least the man has a gorgeous smile. “Nice to meet you, Tony. My name’s Steve.”

Steve helps collect and carry whatever belongings Tony can salvage before they make their way to his one-bedroom apartment in the less-posh side of town.

“I know it’s not much, but feel free to make yourself at home. The bathroom is through there,” he indicates a door immediately to their right. “You can take a shower if you want, and there’s a laundry room on the ground floor if you want to wash your things.”

Everything Tony owned that is still more or less intact had been tossed into a dirty alley, left to soak in God-knows-what from the wet, soiled pavement. Ty had really fucked him over on that account.

“There’s a coin jar on the counter for the machines. It’s a dollar fifty a load for wash and seventy-five cents for dry. Detergent and dryer sheets are here,” he opens a side cabinet containing a slim vacuum cleaner and some cleaning supplies. “No one should hassle you, but if they do, tell them you’re my guest. Steve Rogers. Unit 109B, alright?”

“Why are you doing this?” Tony asks, still standing in the entryway, one foot in the safety of the hallway.

Steve shrugs, dropping his keys into a decorative bowl. “Because you looked like you needed a break, and I had one to spare.”

Lunch is a stack of fluffy pancakes whipped up from the pantry staples Steve keeps in stock with a side of bacon and eggs. Based on the contents of his fridge, this Steve fellow must be a breakfast enthusiast or entertain quite a few overnight guests. Tony would be willing to put money on the latter, if he hadn’t been flat broke. Perhaps the guy just makes a habit of preying on people down on their luck, willing to do just about anything for a hot meal and a roof over their head for the night.

It’s probably cheaper than dating and more successful, too, if Steve is looking for an easy hole to wet his dick.

“I… um… I should get going. There are people expecting… I– I have a job,” Tony stammers after finishing his last bite of pancake. If he is ever to get back on his feet (and off his back so to speak), then it would probably help if he didn’t lose his only other source of income. “I wash dishes.”

Steve collects their plates, bringing them the short distance to the sink. “Do you have your MetroCard? You can take some money from the coin jar if you’re short.”

“No, I think I’m good. Thanks.” Tony would rather not owe the man more than he already does.

Steve only hums as he grabs a sponge. “I was serious about the offer, you know. You can stay here a few days until you figure out what you’re going to do from here on out.”

Tony is already threading his arms through his hoodie before pulling it over his head. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Train’s just around the corner. There’s a spare key in the bowl for you so you can let yourself in later. 109B.”

“That’s not very secure.”

Steve shrugs, elbow deep in suds. “I don’t always give out spares. Only to house guests. Besides, it’s not like I own much of anything. The most you can possibly get is probably twenty-five bucks for the TV, but I like to think a place to stay is worth a little more than that.”

Steve is right of course. It’s readily apparent that he doesn’t own much, and what he has is old and worn. Tony could hawk everything in the apartment and probably get enough for a stay at a seedy hotel for a single night followed by a misdemeanor conviction and short jail sentence for petty larceny of property valued below $200.

“See you later tonight, Tony,” Steve says, with more confidence than Tony feels is warranted given the situation.

“Yeah. Later.”

* * *

Tony spends his entire shift puzzling out Steve’s motivations, considering and discarding every possibility until all he is left with is his first instinct: Steve wants to fuck, and Tony happens to be convenient.

“Tony, are you done with the salad plates?” the executive chef, Pepper, calls out.

Tony curses. He had timed it wrong, having run other dishware through the commercial dishwasher first when there were plenty left. “Sorry, Pep. Glasses and utensils are almost done. I think I also have a pallet of bowls in there. Plates are next.” He starts handwashing as many as possible, trying to fix his mistake that threatened the smooth workflow of the kitchen.

His work is physically grueling, but Tony is generally pretty efficient. Not today, unfortunately. He’s clumsier than usual, having dropped an entire container of dirty dishes earlier that very afternoon.

Pepper appears at his elbow. “Is everything alright? You seem distracted.”

“I’m fine,” he lies, stacking up clean dishes in a drying rack. “I just… I had a challenging morning, but I’m working through it. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Pepper isn’t convinced, a fact that becomes clear after staff dinner when she pushes a bag containing cheese grits and sausage at Tony.

“There was extra leftover,” she tells him. “You can take it back to that boyfriend of yours, as a peace offering.”

Tony shouldn’t be too surprised. Pepper could always tell when they had had a fight.

Still, even if he and Ty were on speaking terms, this wouldn’t exactly be the gift Tony needed to soften his heart. “Thanks Pep, but uh… there’s dairy in this,” he points out.

“Mm hm.”

“Ty is allergic to dairy.”

“Is he now?”

“Yeah, it gives him the runs.”

Ty had forbidden dairy in their home, denying Tony his favorite cheeseburgers and milkshakes, though Tony still snuck it on occasion when he ate alone. Perhaps the fact that he ate regular grits and not the vegan polenta that night had been a dead giveaway that all is not right between them.

Pepper bites her lip. “Tony… I know it’s none of my business, and I don’t want to overstep, but um…” She slips him a business card for the restaurant with the domestic abuse hotline written in sharpie on the back. “There are resources available. You can–”

Tony doesn’t quite look at her when he hands the card back. “They can’t help me.”

“I know it can be… difficult to admit you need help, but there’s no shame in it. They’ve helped a few of my friends–”

Tony stops her right there. “I know what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate it, but it won’t work. I’ve already tried. They don’t accept men.” Most had refused him outright with a couple hanging up on him mid-sentence, but one had offered him space in a homeless shelter. Some of the center directors were even sympathetic, agreeing that they needed shelters and services for men, but their programs are simply not designed to accommodate him.

“Do you have anyone you can stay with? A friend to confide in? Perhaps–”

“I’m fine,” Tony interjects. “I um… I left him this morning. I’m staying with a– with a friend. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m handling it.”

It’s not strictly the truth, but he’d rather not bother Pepper with his problems. Tony can take care of himself. He can navigate this new situation with Steve, temporary though it may prove to be. He doesn’t need Pepper’s sympathy, because if there’s one thing Tony knows, it’s that people are fickle with a finite amount of patience for bullshit. They do not like perpetual neediness. They sneer at dependency, expecting people like him (e.g. young adults) to be able to pull himself up by his bootstraps no matter how deep the crevice in which he had fallen is. He would rather not drop the façade of self-sufficiency and risk wearing out his welcome with a _coworker_ of all people, if possible.

Her brows draw together, and her tone is one of concern. “If you’re sure…”

Tony simply holds up the takeout bag. “Thanks for the extra, Pep, but I’ll be fine.”

And with that, he removes his apron, bunching it up to discard in the laundry basket, and clocks out for the day. Tony will be fine. He has to be, because what else is he going to do? So he concentrates on the next step, on putting one foot in front of the other from the restaurant to the subway to the apartment complex and all the way up to the door of Unit 109B.

In the end, it’s not like Tony has much choice but to return, even when he knows Steve is going to want something for all the trouble he’s gone to in helping him.

At least Steve is attractive.

At least he looks clean. God, Tony hopes he’s clean. Tony himself had been tested recently at the free clinic, at Ty’s insistence when the man was convinced Tony had been cheating on him. Tony would laugh at the irony, if he wasn’t on the verge of tears.

 _This isn’t cheating,_ he tells himself, because they broke up or at the very least are on a break. If Ty is going to throw him out like last night’s bad Chinese takeout, then he can’t complain about what Tony has to do to survive.

(He hopes.)

He draws up his shoulders, straightens his back, and takes a deep breath before inserting the key into the lock and turning it.

Tony refuses to feel bad about this.

The door swings open, and – ignoring the dread heavy like a lead weight in his belly – he steps resolutely into his own personal hell to face the devil himself.

“Are you hungry?” Steve asks, peering out over his shoulder at Tony. He’s mid-way through wrapping up what looks like a pie in aluminum foil. “I made quiche. Spinach and cheese with a little sausage.” He smiles easily, a touch of relief clear in his countenance and in the loosening of his entire body. “You want some?”

So, Steve _hadn’t_ thought Tony was such a sure thing after all. Good thing for him Tony is desperate.

“No. We had cheese grits and sausage for staff dinner. Pepper – that’s the executive chef – she even sent me home with extra.”

“I’m glad you have someone looking out for you,” Steve says, and he even manages to sound genuine, too.

Tony doesn’t trust it.

If Tony lets him, first Steve will push to meet what little support system he has left and then proceed to pick them off one by one. He still misses honeybear; he really does, but it’s been too long, and Tony is too embarrassed, too ashamed to crawl back after what they had said to each other, after how they had left things. It’s not that Tony believes Rhodey will laugh in his face or say so much as an _I told you so,_ even if Tony deserves it, but perhaps they won’t be as close as they once were before Ty. Maybe he’ll find that Rhodey has moved on – outgrown their friendship, outgrown Tony himself – and when he finally looks Rhodey in the eye (when he can manage the feat again), he’ll find something even worse there: Pity.

Tony can’t take that risk.

“She’s just a coworker,” Tony states flatly. “She made too much and didn’t want the rest to go to waste.”

It’s very late, well past midnight. If Tony hadn’t known any better, he would have thought Steve is up for a late-night snack, but he supposes he’s looking to satisfy a different kind of hunger. It’s as good a time as any.

Steve retires to the bedroom, leaving Tony in the kitchen to put away his leftovers and make peace with what is about to transpire. Tony supposes his body is ready even if his mind has a little catching up to do. _It’s not so bad,_ he tells himself. _Everything is fine._

_Everything will be just fine._

But when Steve re-emerges minutes later with a pillow and extra blanket, handing off the bedding before pulling open the futon in the living room, Tony doesn’t quite know what to make of his actions. Did he want to fuck on the futon?

“And there we go,” Steve says, stepping back to view his handiwork. “There’s an extra toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet. I hung up your towel, and got you some containers to store your things.” He points to a couple clear Sterilite containers stacked at one end of the futon. “If you need anything else, just let me know. It’s getting late, so… Good night, Tony.”

Steve then retires to the bedroom, leaving Tony to wonder what the fuck just happened (or rather didn’t happen)?

* * *

“Did you sleep well?” Steve asks him the following morning, after he returns from his early-morning run to quietly prepare a breakfast of leftover quiche alongside a serving of orange slices.

Tony hadn’t. He had tossed and turned all night, waking up in confusion when Steve had used the bathroom at what had to be the crack of dawn.

“Yeah, like a baby.”

Babies, as he understands it, are notoriously bad sleepers.

Steve looks relieved. “That’s good. The futon is kind of old. I was afraid it would be lumpy.”

As lumpy as his mother’s infamous mashed potatoes, not that Tony would ever say that. Steve’s futon is better than the alternative: a cold park bench or an overcrowded homeless shelter.

“Would you like some milk with your coffee?”

Ty would never let–

“Yeah sure.”

Steve pulls out a jug from the fridge to pass to Tony. “So, uh… Tony, here’s the deal,” he begins.

 _Here it is,_ Tony thinks, the quiche already curdling in his belly as he braces himself for the _conditions_ of his tenure here.

“I’m a firefighter,” Steve continues, unaware of Tony’s inner turmoil, “which means I work ten 24-hour shifts a month at the station. It’s one day on; two days off, you know. So my next shift starts tomorrow at 8am, and I’ll be back the following morning. You can stay here while I’m gone. There’s food in the fridge – eggs and milk and cereal and such – so feel free to help yourself.”

Tony waits, but there are no further stipulations. “So you’re going to be gone for a day?”

“Yeah,” Steve confirms. “And nothing in here is worth anything at a pawn shop, so… you know, that’s something to consider.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna rob you blind.” He should be insulted, but then again, Steve didn’t really know him.

The feeling is mutual.

“I’ll admit it’s unlikely, and it’s nothing personal. You just never know what people are capable of.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Steve had certainly flouted Tony’s expectations at every turn.

* * *

Without his guitar or any expendable income, Tony spends the hours before his shift watching trashy daytime television while looking up prices of second-hand guitars on the smartphone Ty had given him for his last birthday. He figures that if Steve lets him crash on his couch for a little while longer, he’ll be able to afford a replacement with his next paycheck or two, and then he’ll be back busking in the subway, earning enough for a security deposit and first month’s rent between two revenue streams.

With a plan in place, Tony is feeling slightly optimistic, like there is a way forward that doesn’t involve becoming Steve’s personal cocksleeve indefinitely. It might still happen. He’s not sure why Steve is holding back. Perhaps he’s lulling Tony into a false sense of security, showing him how comfortable he could be before introducing sexual favors as a requirement of his continued presence in the apartment. Perhaps he even likes the idea of saving a down-on-his-luck musician, and if that bit of altruism came with side benefits, then all the better. Some men like their kept partners to be creative (but dependent), so they can feel like they’re patronizing the arts while getting their cocks serviced.

Ty was like that: A God-damn modern-day Medici.

However, Tony quickly realizes he isn’t the only one with creative talent.

Steve, as it turns out, is an artist in his own right.

“These are really good,” Tony had said while leafing through the man’s charcoal drawings of the city and coworkers from the firehouse.

“You think?”

“Yeah.” There are multiple pictures of a grizzled man with long hair and his incredibly-handsome boyfriend.

“That’s Bucky and Sam. I’m working on a larger piece for their anniversary in a couple months. They’ve been together three years.”

“You get paid for this?” He supposes everybody has a side hustle these days.

But Steve simply shakes his head. “No, they’re just good friends. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“So, you’re a do-gooder in general; I’m not special.”

Steve blushes. “No, Tony. I do good things on occasion, and you are very special,” he says, rubbing his thumb in a circular motion over the back of Tony’s hand before stopping to pat him on the shoulder. “So, what do you think of this position? You think it will translate well to canvas?”

Tony isn’t stupid. Steve is clearly interested, even if he hadn’t made any specific demands of Tony.

Yet.

Really, it’s the wait, the not knowing, that is stressing him out.

And so it happens that a little over a week later, Tony is exhausted. He’s tired of the tension, the uncertainty of when the other shoe is going to drop. He’s not even sure what Steve can possibly be getting out of this arrangement anyway. Tony isn’t sleeping with him, nor is Steve rich enough to be into financial domination. Perhaps he’s just the type to take in strays – a sucker, through and through – but Tony cannot trust that Steve’s goodwill will extend indefinitely without _some_ side benefits.

“We gonna fuck or what?” Tony says nonchalantly as he leans up against the doorframe of Steve’s bedroom one night.

Steve mouth drops open as he the book he is reading slips out of his fingers and onto his lap. “Tony, you don’t have to–”

“I want to.”

“…You sure?”

Tony shrugs, rolling his back from one side to the other against the frame, crossing the threshold. “Why not? It feels great, and you look like you’d be good in the sack. So, unless you’re saving yourself for Jesus or something… why wait?”

Steve tries to be reasonable. “I know you’re going through a lot right now–”

“I’m perpetually going through a lot. If I waited for everything to stop being a lot, then I’d never get anywhere.”

“You can stop here for a spell. Rest and recuperate, you know.”

“Yeah… that’s not happening either. I don’t do slow as a general rule, so I’m just saying… you don’t have to wait either.” Tony is ready; he can do this. It wouldn’t be the first time he let someone fuck him for three hots and a cot, the latter half of his relationship with Tiberius Stone being a prime example.

Still, Steve resists even as Tony can sense his faux resolve is crumbling. “Ever hear of delayed gratification?”

“Delay it long enough, and it will never happen.” Tony saunters over while pulling his shirt up and over his head, mussing his hair in a way he knows is attractive based on the Steve’s slack-jawed stare. “So, are we doing this?”

In lieu of a verbal reply, Steve scoots over to make room for Tony who slides off his pants and sidles in next to him. Steve starts slow, a hesitant kiss that Tony deepens as he slips a hand in Steve’s pants to fondle his burgeoning erection. The faster he can get Steve off, the quicker he can secure his position. Then, he will be able to retreat to his futon and finally get some sleep.

Steve rolls them over until he’s hovering over Tony, rutting against his hand as he laves Tony’s jaw line with his tongue, trailing down to kiss his neck then the hollow of his collar bone. Tony bites his lip, his trepidation giving way to pleasure. If the circumstances had been different, he likes to think he would have wanted this with Steve, and so he can almost pretend that this isn’t an arrangement, that he is allowed to negotiate his desires with the man above him, to tell him what he likes and say no to what he doesn’t.

Fortunately, Steve happens to be considerate. He is gentle as he fingers Tony open, stretching him gradually to ensure he can take his girth. Tony enjoys the early days of a new lover; Ty had been similarly sweet back when he was still trying to convince Tony he could be good to him. And he could be… when he so desired. Steve isn’t so different. He’s kind now, but eventually, he’ll settle in between Tony’s parted thighs, press his bare dick to Tony’s entrance, and–

Steve tears open a condom, rolling it down his length. He kisses Tony again as he tentatively prods at his hole before sheathing himself incrementally deeper with rolling thrusts to ensure he adjusts to the intrusion until Tony is moaning and wanting.

He throws his arms around Steve, his legs squeezing on either side of his waist. Steve’s skin is slick with sweat and radiates heat.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he murmurs, reaching between their bodies to stroke Tony’s erection.

“Oh God, Steve,” Tony says, his feet finding purchase on the mattress as he rocks against the man above him. “Harder.”

Steve obliges, lifting Tony’s leg over his shoulder to open him wider as he picks up speed, rubbing up against something deep inside him until he’s a shuttering mess. Tony cries out when he comes, his body tensing and his mouth dropped open as he spills between their bodies. Steve leans over his body, nearly folds him in half as he pounds into him, coming not long after.

After he disposes of the condom and washes he hands, Steve cradles Tony close and plants kisses on the back of his neck.

“I– I should get back to the futon,” Tony mumbles, even as he burrows deeper under the covers, pulling them up to his chest.

Steve’s breath is warm on his ear. “You don’t have to. Why don’t you stay, sweetheart?”

And it’s just so cozy, the mattress so soft compared to the old futon, that Tony decides to take him up on his offer.

In the morning, Tony is detached, his demeanor almost cold through breakfast. He can tell that Steve is clearly unhappy with Tony’s attitude, thinking that maybe the entire thing had been a mistake, that Tony must be having regrets about what they had done. He can’t afford to lose Steve’s interest, and so he crawls into bed beside the man that very night after second shift. He kisses him slow, his lips almost languid.

“Tony, what–”

If Steve is still capable of speech, Tony must be doing something wrong. He tries again, more fervently this time. Then he rolls Steve onto his back, slips a condom on, and mounts his dick, riding him to completion as Steve gasps and groans and strokes Tony’s erection until he comes as well.

Tony moves into Steve’s room soon after that, his belongings slowly transferred from Sterilite storage bins to the left side of Steve’s closet and dresser until it is like Tony has always lived there. They have sex some nights but simply sleep just as often with Tony tucked close in Steve’s arms, his fingers absently tracing figure eights in his lover’s skin.

Now that they’ve fucked, Tony expects Steve to be greedy, to split Tony on his dick, fuck into him mercilessly with his hand planted on the back of Tony’s neck to push his face into the mattress and muffle his cries. But against expectation, Steve seems to prefer fucking him face-to-face, and when Tony fails to finish, Steve will suck him off until he does. He clearly wishes to please Tony, though Tony is confused as to why he bothers. Steve is already housing and feeding him. That’s the implied exchange: sexual pleasure for room and board. Then again, perhaps a large part of Steve’s pleasure is the knowledge that Tony gets off on it as well. He seems like the type.

You know, a real Nice Guy™.

“Would you like some waffles, sweetheart?” Steve asks Tony over his shoulder. He pours out a ladle of batter into the waffle iron before Tony can respond. “I picked up some fried chicken from that place on the corner you like.”

Tony traverses the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

* * *

Ever since a former girlfriend, Sunset Bain, managed to get Tony fired from an entry-level position at a security firm, Tony prefers to keep his work and personal life separate. All his exes knew this. Even Ty, for all his faults, hadn’t bothered to come down and check on him at the restaurant, though Tony thought it might have more to do with being unwilling to be seen on the poor side of town than an actual respect for his stated boundaries.

Steve, apparently, is completely unaware of this fact.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Parker, one of the new waiters, calls out. “There’s this hot guy out front asking for you.”

Tony stops scrubbing the large stock pot and cants his head to the side. “What’s he look like?”

“Tall, blonde, stacked like a brick house, and did I mention smoking hot?”

For one terrible moment, Tony thinks Parker is describing Ty.

“And he’s real nice, very polite.”

Ah. That must be Steve. Ty could be polite, but he is consistently a dick to service staff he considered beneath him. It had been one of the red flags Tony had ignored in the early days back when he looked at Ty like the man hung the moon. Luckily, his unwelcome visitor is not his ex.

But still–

 _What the fuck is Steve doing here?_ Tony thinks with more than a little annoyance.

Only one way to find out.

He rinses out the pot and dries it before declaring, “I’m taking my fifteen.”

Steve’s face brightens when he sees Tony exit the kitchen then falls at Tony’s body language as he stomps past him, grabbing his arm on the way to drag him outside.

“Why are you here, Steve?”

He’s hunched over now, knowing he screwed up but not understanding how. “I just thought I’d see where you work. Maybe grab a bite to eat.”

Tony supposes it’s a free country. If Steve wanted to eat at the specific bistro where he worked, Tony can’t exactly forbid him, but “If you’re here as a customer, then fine. Order a burger or a plate or whatever, but don’t interrupt me at work.”

“Sorry, Tony. I just was in the area and thought… well, I thought I’d stop by, see the restaurant…”

Tony’s being a dick about this; he knows it. He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathes out slow. “Sorry. Rude. I’m being rude, aren’t I? It’s just… there’s work and there’s home and never the two shall meet, okay? I– I don’t have a great track record with mixing the two, and I just really need this job.”

“I’m not getting you in trouble right now, am I?” Steve sounds concerned as he cranes his neck to look into the dining area.

“No. I’m on my break right now, but I need to get back soon so…”

“This isn’t the best neighborhood to be in after midnight,” Steve says off-handedly. “Would it be okay if I stopped by once in a blue moon and maybe escorted you home?”

“Okay, yes, fine,” Tony quickly agrees. “Just… are you hungry? Pep does whip up some good grub, if you are.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be able to join me?”

“Staff dinner is after closing.”

“Then maybe when you’re free. Next Tuesday, right? You maybe want to go to a little Italian joint on Mulberry Street?” Steve suggests. “They make pretty good meatballs. Authentic, or so I’m told.”

“Getting tired of breakfast food?”

“Never, but I thought you might want a break.”

It had been a while since he’d been to Little Italy, and Steve _is_ good company. “Sounds great.”

“See you later tonight, sweetheart,” Steve says, giving him a peck on the cheek before following him back into the restaurant and taking a seat in one of Parker’s booths.

“New boyfriend?” Pepper asks when he returns to his station.

“He’s just a friend.”

“I like him. He seems sweet,” she says as she piles extra fries on the plate meant for Steve’s table.

Tony gives her a one-shoulder shrug as he stacks the dirty plates into the commercial dishwasher. “He really is something else.”

* * *

Tony isn’t exactly surprised when it happens, but it still manages to unmoor him when Ty calls almost three weeks after kicking him out. He debates accepting the call for six rings before ultimately answering.

“I’m ready to forgive you, Tony,” Ty tells him magnanimously after a stilted exchange of pleasantries. “You can come home.”

Tony breathes out slow and looks up at the ceiling. He scratches at his ear then rounding to the back of his neck. “I’m already home.” Steve had made that clear enough.

“You call whatever halfway house you landed in a home?” Ty scoffs. “How many men do you have to share a room with, hm? Do you wear flip flops in the shower to prevent athlete’s foot? Come on, baby. Don’t let your pride stop you from accepting an upgrade.”

“It’s not a halfway house.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” he says sarcastically. “A _co-op,_ then.”

Perhaps it’s the timber of Ty’s voice, the assumption that Tony can’t do any better without him that grates on Tony. “I live in an apartment with someone who appreciates me,” he states with relish. “I don’t need you anymore.” _You can’t control me anymore._

It’s an impulse he’ll come to regret.

There’s ominous silence on the other end, stretching so long Tony thinks Ty might have hung up.

“…You cheated on me?”

A tendril of fear, of shame Tony assumed long dead unfurls in his chest. “I didn’t–”

“You ungrateful bitch! After all I’ve done for you–”

His fingers tighten around the phone as shame gives way to a deep well of repressed anger. “Kicked me out? Made me homeless?”

“I housed you for almost a year on my own dime!”

“I paid rent!”

“A third of what was fair! Because I knew you couldn’t afford it, but did I ever hold it against you?” –he hadn’t, though Tony suspected it was because Tony had already done that all on his own– “And now this is the thanks I get? I should have known better than to take up with a faithless whore!”

“You left me no other choice,” Tony hisses through grit teeth.

“I took you to Boston, introduced you to my parents. Remember when we danced in that smoky club and ended up talking all night on the rooftop? Then you kissed me, told me you never felt like that before. Was that a lie? Did any of it ever mean anything to you?”

It had, and that’s what hurt all the more later when Ty would beat and berate him, crushing his self-worth until Tony was willing to do anything to appease him, even carve out pieces of his own life until all that was left was a husk to be discarded.

“It– it did, but–”

“Then how could you have moved on so quickly? What we had must have meant so little to you,” Ty says, the preamble of yet another rant.

Tony can’t do this right now. He can’t sit through another lecture designed to make him feel so worthless, so very small.

And so he counters, “It obviously meant little to you if you kicked me out for the smallest of infractions–”

“How could it be small? You were – _are_ – obviously cheating.”

“If you believe that, then let me go. Then we can both be free.”

There’s a beat, a moment of silence before Ty speaks again, calmer this time. “You think this new person you’ve managed to con into taking care of you won’t figure it out, Tony? You think they’ll still want you two months from now when you can’t keep up with your fair share of the bills, when you’re leaving your three-day-old socks on the floor?” Ty’s voice is nearly venomous, dripping into Tony’s ear, paralyzing him with doubt. “I was fine with it because I love you, but do you think this new person is going to want to deal with all your bullshit?”

“He… he’s good to me,” Tony nearly whispers.

“For now.”

“He doesn’t ask anything of me.”

“Because you’ve already given it all to him, haven’t you?” Ty accuses him. “Tell me, Tony. Do you let him come inside you? When you said I was the first who had you like that, was that a lie?”

Tony hangs up then chucks his phone across the room onto the futon when Ty calls back.

* * *

When Steve comes home the following morning at 8:47am, Tony is still curled up in bed, his phone off and hidden in the nightstand drawer.

“I brought you an egg sandwich from the firehouse,” Steve says softly as he reaches out to stroke Tony’s shoulder.

Tony only shrivels further, pulling the blankets nearly over his head. “Not hungry.”

“Are you not feeling well, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine. You don’t have to coddle me. I’ll be up in fifteen.”

“Okay…” but Steve makes no move to leave, instead stripping off his pants and shirt to slip in beside Tony, even as the man stays resolutely turned away from him. He drapes an arm low over Tony’s waist, his nose buried in the bushy tangle of his lover’s hair.

Tony knows Steve has had a long day. He just got off a 24-hour shift and probably wants to rest for a bit, but his proximity is unwelcome. He shrugs him off. “I’m not staying in bed all day with you.”

“Your shift doesn’t start until four,” Steve says plaintively.

“I’m not going to lie about for six hours. I’m not lazy.”

“Never said you were.”

“It was implied.”

Steve sighs. “Tony, what is this about?”

“Ty called last night. He wants me to come back home,” Tony admits, curling up small as protection against the coming storm.

Steve is quiet at that, and the silence stretches so long, Tony thinks he’s dropped it.

“Why aren’t you screening that asshole’s calls?” and now he sounds upset.

_Great._

“I don’t know!” Tony exclaims with a touch of desperation. “I saw his name, and it was ringing, and– and… why do I even have to justify this to you?”

“You don’t,” Steve clarifies, “but I don’t think taking his calls is healthy. One phone call has you nearly bed-bound and stewing in a sour mood, and–”

Tony balks at Steve’s attitude, at his absolute cheek. He had spent nearly a year catering to Ty’s whims, and he wasn’t about to start the same cycle with Steve. “You can’t tell me what to do!”

“I’m not–”

“Jesus, Steve. It’s not like we’re actually dating,” he says before he can stop himself, giving voice to the unspoken truth between them. This is only temporary, a mutually-beneficial arrangement that will last as long as both are getting something out of it. Because there’s no way someone like Steve would be genuinely interested in someone like Tony on a long-term basis.

Though it has never been stated so baldly before, they both know it.

Or at least, Tony had thought they both knew it, but one look at the devastation clear on Steve’s face and Tony isn’t quite so sure anymore.

“We aren’t?” Steve asks, his body tense, his voice sounding nearly strangled.

And that’s when Tony realizes that’s exactly what Steve thinks they’ve been doing: Dating.

“…Do you want to be?”

But Steve still can’t quite process the chain of events that led Tony to think they are in anything other than a relationship. “Aren’t we already?”

“I didn’t think you wanted me like that,” he says honestly. “I thought… I thought we were just fucking around, you know? Like pre-dating, but maybe eventually you’ll move on and want to be friends…” or at least pretend to want to be friends before slowly but inevitably fading from Tony’s life.

Steve wraps his arms around Tony, pulling him close. “Will you be my boyfriend, Tony? I promise to treat you right, to treat you like you deserve.”

Like Tony hasn’t heard that line a million times.

But… Steve seems so earnest, and he had held up his end of the bargain, even before Tony had known there was a bargain being struck.

And so Tony returns his embrace. “I’d like that, Steve.”

* * *

“You seem happier these days,” Pepper comments later, midway through Tony’s shift.

Tony had been rather efficient, humming along to a random tune as he worked.

“It’s that guy from the other day, isn’t it? The good tipper?”

“I don’t kiss and tell, Pep.”

Tony is still in such a good mood after closing that he doesn’t even see the figure waiting for him half a block from the restaurant until it’s too late.

“Good evening, Tony.” Ty smashes a cigarette underfoot as he moves into Tony’s path.

Tony stops, fear spiking in his belly as he takes a step back. “Ty…”

“You used to greet me with a kiss,” Ty continues as he looms over him. “What’s the matter, baby? Aren’t you happy to see me?”

Tony’s hackles raise at the pet name. “Don’t call me that. We’re not together. I thought I made that clear on the phone when–”

Ty grabs him by his upper arms, dragging him into a side alley. “It’s cute that you think you get to decide when we’re done.” His grip tightens to the point of pain.

Tony struggles as he tries to break Ty’s hold. “Let me go! You’re hurting me!”

“Tell me, Tony: Do you let him fuck you bare, or is he not rich enough for the privilege?” Ty’s voice is low, deadly soft, a stark contrast to Tony’s increasing hysteria.

“It’s not your business who I fuck or how! Not anymore! Now let me go!” He nearly succeeds in pulling away, but Ty readjusts, holding him from behind, his arm trapping Tony’s at his sides as his hand reaches up to rest under his neck, squeezing slightly in warning.

“I always knew you were a stupid whore who will spread his legs for anyone willing to feed you. That’s why I could never trust you.”

“You’re crazy,” Tony says, trying to calm down, to measure his breaths. He can’t breathe too deeply; Ty won’t allow it. “You– you left me, and now that you decide you want me back, I should just go along with that, too?”

His grip tightens fractionally. Tony thinks Ty can feel his pulse, just under the surface, fast like a jackrabbit.

“That was for your own good. You treat a whore too well, and she gets comfortable, forgets how much she owes her keeper and starts to screw around on him.” His other hand drops lower. He starts to roughly massage Tony’s groin while simultaneously grinding the man’s ass against his dick as Tony renews his struggle. “Don’t you miss me, baby?”

Tony can’t break free. He can’t extract himself from the cage of Ty’s limbs, and so he does the only thing he can think of. He starts to scream, to cry, then bites into the meat of Ty’s palm when Ty tries to silence him. His captor yelps, releasing then backhanding him into the dumpster.

“You bit me, you little slut!”

Tony scoots back as far as he can go, using the dumpster as leverage to scramble up to a standing position. His right eye is starting to swell, and he tastes blood from where Ty had split his lip.

He won’t go quietly. Tony squares up and wonders if Ty is really going to kill him this time.

Just then, his attacker is felled with a mean right-hook coming from somewhere in Tony’s damaged right peripheral.

“Steve!”

“Are you alright, Tony?” Steve says, backing up towards Tony while keeping his eye on Ty.

Tony blames a likely concussion for his honesty. “Yeah, nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

Steve’s nostrils flare as he glares at Ty, who rises shakily to his feet. His expensive wool coat is dirty, smeared with the grime of the alley. He massages his jaw. “He’s not worth it, you know?”

“Shut up!” Steve is not having it, not today.

“I’m not blaming you. I get it. He’s got a pretty set of big brown doe eyes that just make you feel sorry for him. What sob story did he tell you? Did he say how he had nowhere else to go? Did he cry?”

“I said shut up!” Steve clearly wants to pummel him some more, but he is unwilling to step away from Tony.

Ty only chuckles at the display of devotion. “He’ll pretend to love you, to want to stay, but it’s a lie. He’ll leave you for greener pastures the minute he gets what he considers a better offer. He’s done it many times before, and he’ll do it again. Mark my–”

_Bam!_

Tony sidesteps Steve and punches Ty before he can finish. Steve pulls him back behind him, placing himself between the two yet again.

Ty spits blood onto the pavement, but when he turns to his audience, he’s smiling. “A little too close for comfort, huh baby?” he says, flashing his red-tinged teeth. “Don’t bother coming home when loverboy here tires of you. I don’t do sloppy seconds.”

“I said we’re through,” Tony says from around Steve. “If you didn’t get the hint before, I’m telling you now. We’re done.”

“I suppose we are. Have a nice life, Tony,” and with that, Ty walks out of the alley and out of Tony’s life.

Steve watches him go, tending to Tony after he’s sure his assailant is gone. Tony hisses when Steve touches his face, carefully turning his chin to assess the damage.

He frowns. “I’ll walk you home from now on, and I’ll find you an escort during my shifts.”

But Tony just shakes his head. “I don’t think he’s coming back.” Ty just wanted the last word; he wanted to be the one to tell Tony they’re over on his terms to fit whatever fucked-up narrative he had in his head.

“It would make me feel better to know you’re safe.”

It’s a fair ask, especially considering what just happened, so Tony compromises. “I can walk to the next station over with Pepper and Happy. It’s an extra stop on the way back, but… safety in numbers, I guess.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you,” Steve says, holding him close. “Why don’t we go home, put some ice on that shiner, okay?”

Tony only nods his assent. Still, on the way to the station, he feels the need to clarify, “So… back there, about what Ty said…”

“That man is a liar and a bully,” and that is the last word Steve will hear on the topic.

* * *

Tony’s bruises aren’t quite healed by the following Tuesday, the day of their first bona fide date as a couple, so Tony purchases some concealer, powder, and makeup sponges from the corner drugstore to cover them up, just like his mother used to do. Tony is good at it; he had had a lot of practice during his relationship with Ty.

Steve is less than impressed.

“How…” he points to his own eye after Tony emerges from the bathroom.

“I am a man of many talents,” Tony replies playfully, though Steve frowns at the joke. “It’s just a little concealer, okay? Just don’t touch my face too much, and it’ll be fine.”

“You shouldn’t have to do that.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Like I’m going to go on a date looking like I got into a fight with Mohammad Ali?”

“You should never have needed to learn,” Steve clarifies, his big fingers interlacing with Tony’s.

_Oh._

“You ready to go?”

“Yeah, just about.”

At the restaurant, Steve orders ravioli while Tony orders parmigiana, and they split an appetizer of arancini along with a dessert of tiramisu.

Over dinner, Tony regales Steve with stories that were always funnier in hindsight – anecdotes of his broken childhood and the early years of trying to secure housing and employment through a string of the oddest of odd jobs.

“…And then there was this time I was a cat walker for Old Man Simmons,” Tony is saying, describing his first job post-disownment. “He must have had twenty of the little buggers, you know, and walking a cat is not like walking a dog. They dawdle, wind themselves around trees, and don’t really go much further than ten feet without having to investigate the bushes.”

Steve tilts his head to one side. “I didn’t know you could walk cats.”

“Oh yeah, depending on temperament and if you harness-train them – which he did – they’ll go out with you. I didn’t understand it but a job’s a job, you know. And they were good cats. They were always bringing me presents: half-eaten mice and dry leaves.” Tony had never gotten hungry enough to consider actually eating any of their gifts, but he had eyed the cat food on more than one occasion. “Anyways, he had this one black cat named Snowball–”

“He named a black cat Snowball?”

“Yes; that was just the kind of man he was,” he explains with a shrug. “So, Snowball climbs a tree and either won’t or can’t get down. He just sits up there and yowls while the others are ready to move on, so I’m trying to get him down, but I can’t exactly do that when I’m holding leashes for like six other cats, so I tie them to a branch and start climbing,” Tony says, lightly tapping his dessert spoon against his lips. “Only… I was never a boy scout, you see, so by the time I reach Snowball and he scratches up my arms trying to climb onto my head, the knot of leashes has gotten loose, releasing all six cats in like eight different directions. I was able to corral them around three hours later, but anyway that is the story of how I got fired from my first job herding cats, in the most literal sense of the term.”

For his part, Steve tells him about the fire house, about Sam and Bucky, and how the latter had recently proposed to the former.

“He was going to wait until their anniversary, but… well, life’s short, and I guess the thought was _why wait,_ you know?”

“Oh I can think of plenty of reasons,” Tony states. Marriage had always seemed so permanent, or at least harder to escape when things inevitably went south. It hadn’t done his mother any favors, and he shudders to think of what would have happened had he married any of his prior partners.

“Maybe if you found the right person…”

“Then I’ll live with them day by day. I just don’t see the need to tell the government what I intend to do, especially when they’re going to hold me to it down the line.”

It’s not the most romantic argument, but Steve points out, “There’s always health insurance to consider.”

“Sam and Bucky have the same employer. They’ll have the same health insurance regardless of whether they marry or not,” Tony says before realizing how it sounds. “Not to say I’m not happy for your friends. They sound lovely, but I don’t think marriage is for everybody.” Definitely not for Tony of all people.

Steve seems pensive at that.

“Hey, are you going to finish that?” Tony asks, pointing at the last bite of tiramisu.

Steve pushes the plate towards Tony who gladly scoops up the remainder.

* * *

Tony thinks he understands when Steve takes him out to meet his friends from work.

Ty would take Tony to work functions on occasion, where Tony was as much an accessory as his Rolex among his hedge fund buddies. The first time, Tony hadn’t known what was expected of him. He had been overly-friendly and charming, making himself the center of attention, unknowingly at Ty’s expense. Ty had been fine through the hor d’oeuvres and cocktails, laughing alongside the others as his ever-present hand dug into the small of Tony’s back. Later, his demeanor chilled during the cab ride home as Tony continued to blather on, but later behind closed doors, he had struck Tony, called him an attention whore and a slut for smiling too much, accusing him of drawing the attention of everyone in their orbit on purpose.

 _I was just trying to make you look good in front of the other suits,_ Tony had tried reasoning with him.

 _You were trying to make me jealous, to let me know you can ditch me for an upgrade because you want to put me in my place,_ Ty had said as he bent him over the arm of the couch, pulled down Tony’s pants, and unbuckled his own belt. _Did you get what you wanted, baby? Did it make you feel pretty to know every man there wanted you moaning and impaled on his dick?_

Tony had closed his eyes against the tears springing forth, grunting in pain when Ty slid in too roughly. Ty’s thrusts were forceful and erratic, his large hands pressing dark bruises into Tony’s hips and the back of his neck.

_Well they can’t have you. Only I get to see you like this. Only me, you understand?_

Tony had understood all right, just like he understands the underlying purpose of meeting Sam and Bucky. This is a test, he knows, a test he has to pass if he is to continue his relationship with Steve. He is there to make Steve look good, to bolster his reputation and highlight how much better he is, how generous and caring, always centering the spotlight on Steve. Steve is the star; Tony is simply window dressing, and Tony can’t embarrass him nor speak out of turn or risk Steve discarding him in disappointment or at the behest of his friends.

Tony makes his first mistake right away. At Steve’s urging, Tony orders first, choosing a medium-range wine offering that won’t make him appear either low-rent or high-maintenance. The others order beers instead, and Tony could pinch himself for his failure to blend in. Perhaps he should have gone with a hard cider instead though he isn’t really a fan of carbonation. He thinks it tastes too sharp and bitter, the bite resembling how he imagines acid would taste. It’s already too late to change anyway without drawing attention to his error.

It goes downhill from there.

He laughs along with stories Steve weaves of his and Bucky’s life-long friendship and their decision to go into firefighting together, how Steve had never thought of it as a career possibility as a child when he had been weak and asthmatic.

Tony can barely believe it. “You? Weak?” He prods at Steve’s impressive biceps. “I’d sooner believe the Cubs will win the world series sometime in the next decade.”

“Puberty was kind,” Steve says, by way of explanation. He turns to his friends. “Tony grew up in Queens.”

“Yeah?” Sam nudges Tony.

It’s an opening, a segue way into discussions of his upbringing, an invitation to turn that nostalgic gaze back and craft the traumas of his past with an alcoholic father and loving but abused mother into funny, relatable anecdotes.

Tony recognizes a trap when he sees one.

“Yeah, it was alright. I was an only child. I’m sure Steve knows all about how that can be,” he says, redirecting the focus of the conversation back on Steve, as is proper.

After the fourth time Tony has done so, being sure not to take up too much conversational space or bring too much attention to himself, Bucky finally asks him point-blank, “So, tell me. What do you do for a living, Tony?”

Back in the day, Tony might have spun a colorful yarn, embroidered the truth of his mundane occupation with stories of kitchen foibles, of how dishwashing is a good way to learn the basics of the food service business, of his dreams to work up to management and eventually maybe even run the whole damn thing or open his very own restaurant serving burgers. He had ideas to streamline flow, increase efficiency, of delicious burger combinations with punny names even.

But he doesn’t.

“I wash dishes. Steve is so kind; he knows that chore is exactly the thing I don’t want to do when I come home at the end of the day.”

“You wash dishes?” Bucky repeats the first part.

It’s unavoidable now. Tony has to talk about himself, though he downplays much of what he does in hopes of being able to loop back to how wonderful Steve is before long.

“Yeah. At a little bistro in Manhattan, but it’s only until I can save up enough money for a guitar,” Tony explains before further elaborating, “I mean… I’ll still wash dishes. A job’s a job, but I’m a musician too.”

Bucky raises a brow at that. “You’re a musician… without an instrument?” he says slowly.

Tony absently taps his fingers across the bar top. “I used to have a guitar. I played at Union Square. I was okay – made some tips – but uh… I– I don’t have my guitar anymore. So, I need to save up for another one,” he finishes lamely, taking a sip of wine to give his mouth something to do other than dig this hole any deeper. Tony isn’t socially-inept enough to wax poetic on about all the ways his ex screwed him over in front of Steve’s friends.

Despite Tony’s efforts, Bucky is clearly unimpressed. With his stated occupation or his general person, Tony isn’t sure.

“So… how’d you meet Stevie?” Sam inquires, hoping to bring the conversation to more neutral ground while managing to stumble across yet another landmine.

Tony looks away, fidgets in his stool, wondering exactly how to phrase _he found me on the street after my abusive boyfriend publicly humiliated and threw me out_ without making it into a thing. There’s only so much spin a man could put on that little meet-cute.

“Hey, anyone want another round? My treat,” Steve offers, his hand up to summon the bartender over before his friends can respond either way. “Just bring another of whatever everyone’s drinking.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Tony states rather suddenly, sliding off his seat to make his way towards the back. “I’ll be right back.”

Tony stumbles into the restroom, gripping the edge of the sink basin as he stares at himself in the mirror. What he sees is barely recognizable, almost animal-like in its terror. And so he splashes some water on his face and gives his reflection an internal pep talk.

 _You can do this,_ he thinks. _It’s only two people, not an entire investment firm._

In a way, it’s more difficult with less people. His presence is more obviously an aberration when a full third of the room isn’t kept men and women half the age of their richer counterparts. Tony knew how to blend in then, but this? There is no hiding, no anonymity, when you are 25% of the party. Why couldn’t his first outing have been a firehouse Christmas party or summer picnic where he could smile and be a pretty piece of arm candy and no one would notice how little he spoke? It just seemed uncharacteristically cruel of Steve to put him in such a position.

When Tony re-emerges, he quickly ascertains from the chilly reception that something must have transpired between Steve and his friends. Steve is positively glaring at Bucky, his face pinched and shoulders stiff.

“…make his own mistakes,” Tony hears Sam telling Bucky.

Steve swivels to face Sam, likely meaning to tell him off as well, but when he spots Tony, he abruptly rises, throws a few twenties on the bar counter and states, “We’re leaving.”

Sam tries to stop him. “Steve–”

“I’ll see you guys back at the station in a couple days.”

They take a cab home. Steve is upset the entire way back, but he won’t clarify why outside of saying that he isn’t angry with Tony when asked.

“It was nothing you did,” Steve tells him, his fingers interlacing with Tony’s. “Bucky was just being a jerk tonight.”

Tony had barely shut and locked the door behind him when Steve is on him. His hands slipping around the small of Tony’s back as he presses the smaller man to him and nearly devours his kiss. Tony wraps his arms around Steve’s neck for leverage when the man’s hands travel under his ass to heft him up and Tony’s ankles lock behind Steve’s back.

“You’re amazing, Tony,” he mumbles against his lips. “Let me show you just how much you mean to me.”

And how can Tony say no when Steve carries him into the bedroom, lays him out on the mattress, and demonstrates exactly who Tony belongs to.

In the aftermath, when Steve cleans them both off and Tony is aching but content, Steve holds him close, burying his nose in the crook of Tony’s neck and breathing deep.

“I’m the luckiest guy in the city tonight,” he murmurs as he nibbles Tony’s skin. Tony turns his head to meet Steve’s lips, the taste of salt and Tony’s release on his tongue.

“Isn’t that my line?”

“No, sweetheart. I’m the one who has _you_ in his bed.” He lies back and yawns, reaching over to turn off the lights. “Good night, Tony.”

“Sweet dreams, Steve.”

* * *

Tony and Steve have their first big fight two months later. Tensions between Bucky and Tony had been stewing since their first meeting until it boiled over at a firehouse BBQ at the local park. Tony isn’t sure which of them had started it or how, but Tony had ended it when he threw a punch at Bucky who caught his arm and flipped him onto the bark near the children’s swing set. Steve and Sam had intervened before more blows could be exchanged, and Tony had accused Steve of never having his back when it came to Bucky.

“Why don’t you just fuck him and get it over with, huh? Is it because Sam got to him first?” he had said, turning on Steve who stood between him and his quarry.

Later, Tony can admit he had been cruel. He didn’t fight fair (has never learned how), and their fight had lasted from the park all the way home and well into the evening when it further evolved into the silent treatment. But when tempers had flared anew and Steve raises an arm to grab the jacket hanging behind Tony so he can leave before he says something he’ll regret, Tony visibly flinches, his hands thrown up in a defensive pose as he cowers.

Ty had hit him the very first time six weeks into dating, so it wouldn’t be entirely unexpected.

Steve freezes, retracts his arm. “Tony…”

Tony straightens up and runs his fingers through his hair, pretending that that was what he had meant to do the entire time. “What?”

“Tony, I wouldn’t hit you.”

“I know that.” And he does, but sometimes old habits die hard.

“I’m just going to take a walk, calm down, and come back. I think we both need the space.”

Like Tony hasn’t heard that before.

And so after Steve leaves, Tony goes into the bedroom. He takes out the largest duffle bag he can find, throws it open on the bed, and starts stuffing essentials into it: clothing, extra socks and underwear, his good pair of running shoes. His new guitar comes in its own case, and he considers putting it near the door, so he can grab it on his way out. Packing while distraught is one way to leave behind important items. When his vision blurs, he angrily wipes his eyes on his sleeve. He can’t afford to get sentimental now; that always got him in trouble.

He only had limited time before–

“What are you doing?” Steve asks from the doorway of the bedroom.

Tony chokes on a strangled cry, swallowing his despair as he replies, “Packing. I’m tired of starting over from nothing every six to ten months.”

Steve steps closer, stopping just behind him. “I’m not kicking you out.”

“Yet,” Tony tells him, stuffing another pair of warm socks in the corner of the bag. “And then it’s back to the gutter where you found me.”

“I wouldn’t make you homeless. I just wouldn’t do that to you. If you wanted to leave, you can stay until you find another living situation. There’s low-income housing you can apply for, new roommates, old friends – I don’t know – but I do know I won’t turn you out to live on the streets.”

“As long as I keep putting out,” Tony counters sharply before he can think better of it.

There’s dead silence behind him now. Steve isn’t even breathing.

So that’s what it sounds like when a heart breaks.

“…Is that what you think this is?” Steve finally manages. “Tony, is that why–”

And now Tony wishes he can take it back. He turns to face him, leaving the duffle bag half full. “No, that’s not the only reason.”

“But it’s a reason.”

“It’s a reason for people to keep me around.”

Steve pauses, seemingly trying to parse and absorb the implication of those words and what they mean for their relationship. “You take the bed; I’ll sleep on the futon tonight.”

“Steve–” Tony steps into his space, his hand slipping behind his waist as he tries to kiss him, but Steve stops him from completing the motion, bodily leaning away from Tony.

“I can’t… not when you…” he can’t even finish that thought.

“I’m sorry, Steve.” Tony is screwing everything up, like he did with Ty and Sunset and Indries and so many others before them.

“Don’t apologize,” Steve says, his voice rough. “You don’t ever have to apologize for…”

Tony embraces Steve and cries, big fat tears rolling down his cheek onto Steve’s shoulder, wetting the material there. Steve simply holds him back, cradling him in his strong arms, hand rubbing soothing circles in Tony’s back as he softly shushes him and lies to him that everything will be alright.

* * *

That night, Tony can’t sleep. He tosses and turns, tries rolling into the cool space in the middle and using the extra pillow as a comforting presence at his back, but nothing works. It should be no different than when Steve has a work shift, but now it feels much more terribly permanent.

Tony sits up, his legs folded over the edge as he buries his head in his hands.

_What is he going to do now?_

* * *

“Mmbm… Tony?” Steve mumbles, rousing from sleep when Tony slips under the covers of the futon beside him. “Tony, what are you–”

He feels a tug at the front flap of his boxers then cool air on his dick shortly before it’s engulfed in a warm, wet heat accompanied by a tongue swirling under his frenulum.

Steve is wide awake now. He pushes at Tony’s shoulder. “Tony, no. Stop it.”

Tony does stop, even as he paws at his hip. “Please, Steve,” he begs. “Can we just forget what happened? Go back to normal?”

“No, Tony. I don’t think that’s possible.”

“I can’t sleep. Maybe… maybe if we…” Maybe if they fucked it out and things went back to how they were, Tony could rest, or at the very least, sex would tire him out enough so he won’t care either way.

Steve is looking at him now – really looking at him – in the dim light of the living room window. “If I come back to bed, will you be able to sleep?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Okay then,” he scoots to the edge and stands, stretching a bit before following after Tony. “You lied by the way. That futon is not comfortable in the slightest.”

“It seemed rude to complain at the time.”

They lie down together, stock-straight, a full eight inches separating their bodies before Tony crosses the no-man’s land between them to curl around Steve. Steve doesn’t stay rigid for much longer, melting into a more relaxed position as he too embraces Tony.

“Are we going to be okay?” Tony whispers in the dark.

Steve holds him closer. “Rest, sweetheart, and we’ll talk about it in the morning.” Maybe it’s the embrace or the _sweetheart_ , but Tony does feel better. He feels safe and wanted in Steve’s arms, even as he knows this is the very last night he’ll get to sleep like this.

He misses Steve already.

* * *

In the morning, Steve makes pancakes, and they talk, open and honest for perhaps the very first time.

“It’s just… I don’t get it. If you didn’t take me in because you wanted to fuck me, then why did you help me?”

“The fact that you think a man can’t be nice without an ulterior motive is a problem.”

Tony bites his lip, his fork pushing a bit of pancake into an errant drip of syrup. “Anticipating what someone wants from me is how I have survived for as long as I have. I can’t afford to accept ‘just because’ as a reason.” He points his speared pancake at Steve. “Besides, the fact that we did fuck means that you wanted something from me, even if you would never come out and say it, or even demand it as a condition of me staying here. It’s not a nice truth; it’s not pretty, but it is what it is. You wanted something from me.” He takes a bite, chewing vindictively.

Steve simply watches him. “You’re right.”

Tony almost chokes on his pancake. He feels vindicated then inexplicably sad at the admission, but before he can swallow and say so much as an _I-knew-it_ , Steve continues.

“I’m a firefighter, Tony. It’s a dangerous occupation. Every time I’m on a call, there’s a chance I won’t come back. It’s… well, when you get a close call, it forces you to take stock of your life, at what you’ve done with the time allotted to you, and you begin to wonder if you could have something else, something more than what you got.”

He looks away, scratches at the back of his neck. “It’s just… look, I spend every third day at the station. That’s my second home; they’re my family, but the other two days…the guys have other families, other things going on. Bucky and Sam have each other. They have Bucky’s sisters and Sam’s siblings. Sam’s sister Sarah even has kids, and there are Sunday dinners and birthday parties and everything. But me… I just have the boys at the station. That’s it. And then I met you. It didn’t… it didn’t start out like you’re thinking. I didn’t take you in as like a project or a– a plaything. But you didn’t seem to have anybody either, and I thought…” Steve sighs and turns to Tony. “You know, you’re always asking what I want, what I’m getting out of this. All this time, you’ve bent yourself out of shape to fit what others want from you, but you’ve never actually said what you wanted. So, I’m asking you, Tony, because I’m tired of making assumptions and being wrong: What is it you want?”

“I want…” Tony thinks back on their relationship, to all the times Steve had been gentle with him, from the first time he hadn’t turned away from the embarrassing spectacle that his life had become to how he was so careful not to bruise or hurt Tony in their lovemaking to how he had protected Tony and wanted what was best for him… and finally, how desperately Tony had wanted him back. “I want you, Steve.”

Steve sucks in a breath. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to say that because you think it’s what I want to hear.”

Tony can tell he doesn’t quite believe him. “I’m not bullshitting you. You’re not– it’s not like Ty, alright?” he tries to explain. “I don’t have to lie. You aren’t going to punish me for saying the wrong thing or feeling the wrong way or for not being sufficiently grateful for the crumbs of affection you deign to let fall in my direction. I don’t… I don’t have to walk on eggshells around you, not really anyway. You make me feel… I– I like not waiting for the other shoe to drop. You treat me well even when I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve it.”

“You don’t need to do anything to deserve basic respect.”

“The fact that you think that is why I…” _love you_ , Tony realizes suddenly. Holy shit; he loves Steve, and if he was less of a coward, he would have said that instead of: “I– I like being with you.”

Steve reaches out to cup a hand over Tony’s. “I like being with you, too.”

This can’t stand.

Steve deserves better. He deserves to know what he is signing up for, because Tony loves him too much to want any less for him.

And so he warns him, “I can’t promise you forever. Hell, I can barely promise you six months.”

“I understand.”

“Do you, Steve? Because you? You’re a good guy, a forever type of guy, you know, and that’s just not me. I destroy everything I touch given enough time. So this is your fair warning only because I–” _love you_ “–like you. We’ll be a disaster together.”

“That’s okay, Tony. I’m… I’m not looking for forever either–”

Tony raises a brow. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

“I’m not…” Steve massages his temple as if to stave off a Tony-inspired headache. “Let’s just have a little faith, alright? Let’s see where this takes us.”

“We’ll never make it.”

“That’s what everyone says.”

“That’s what _I’m_ saying,” Tony clarifies.

That does it.

“And I’m saying I don’t care,” Steve tells him earnestly. “If that’s the only thing holding you back, then I’m telling you I’d rather have had what we had for this past couple months and however long we last than to have never met you, to never have had you for a lifetime. I don’t care how this ends, only that it started. Maybe that’s selfish of me, but it’s how I feel,” he says, thumping his chest for emphasis.

“You’ll regret it.”

And now Steve is reaching out to cradle his jaw. “Hey. Hey, look at me, Tony.” He waits for Tony to look him in the eye before saying, “Even if we crash and burn, I’ll never regret you.”

“I’m a lot.”

“Yeah… yeah, you are,” Steve agrees, “but if I waited for everything to stop being a lot, then we’d never get anywhere, now would we?”

“…I can’t believe you’re using my own words against me. There are rules– I’m pretty sure that’s against the rules.”

Steve smiles. “I know how much you like hearing yourself talk.”

Tony grumbles at that, but he eyes the plate on the far side of Steve. “Hey, pass the sausage, will you? I’m starving.”

“As you wish, sweetheart.”

**Author's Note:**

> Should Tony take some time to be single for a while and figure his shit out? YES. But people make terrible decisions all the time, and this is fanfiction, so it works out. Eventually. 
> 
> If you want to know what Bucky says while Tony is in the bathroom. He’s very blunt with Steve, because they’ve known each other for so long. He tells Steve that he’s not sure what he sees in Tony, that Tony has the personality and ambition of a wet dish rag, and that he’s not good enough for Steve. Steve is highly offended, and Sam tries to run interference, telling Bucky that even if he thought that, that Steve is an adult and Bucky should let Steve make his own mistakes.
> 
> Also, as a reminder, this story takes place in 2012, during a time when resources for male victims of domestic abuse were not exactly robust in the United States. However, since 2013, the federal government has mandated shelters receiving federal aid offer services to male and female victims of domestic abuse. Some shelters allow battered men to live alongside battered women while many put them up in hotels. Nationwide, there are only two shelters that house men exclusively (one in Dallas and another in Batesville, AR). 
> 
> National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233


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